


(Day 5) Claimed

by mydwynter



Series: January Sherlock Vignette Challenge [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: First Kiss, January Sherlock Vignette Challenge, M/M, Prompt Fic, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-06
Updated: 2013-01-06
Packaged: 2017-11-23 21:06:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/626523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydwynter/pseuds/mydwynter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The interior of the fridge was a sea of masking tape and marker pen. Nearly every item that John had bought that morning was labelled with an unambiguous, uppercase “SHERLOCK HOLMES.” His full name, to distinguish it from other Sherlocks who might live in the house and lay claim to almost all their food.</i>
</p><p>Just to claim, and be claimed in return.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(Day 5) Claimed

**Author's Note:**

> My mind rebels in stagnation. So every day for the month of January I'm posting a Sherlock vignette, born out of prompts from generators and friends alike, little pieces written quickly and posted, sketches made from words.
> 
> Today's prompt and beta courtesy of the delightful Mazarin221B: Sherlock, John, home, "claimed."

The interior of the fridge was a sea of masking tape and marker pen. Nearly every item that John had bought that morning was labelled with an unambiguous, uppercase “SHERLOCK HOLMES.” His full name, to distinguish it from other Sherlocks who might live in the house and lay claim to almost all their food.

John slammed the refrigerator door. Hard.

"SHERLOCK," he yelled, and stomped his way into the lounge, expecting to find his flatmate hanging off the edge of the sofa and texting like a teenaged girl, dragging his hair in the dust on the floor. However, the room was empty. John deliberated for a moment, then stepped over the puddle of Sherlock's coat and began a systematic search of the house; he'd just leave the issue alone, but curiosity killed the cat and John didn't want to give Sherlock any more excuse to trash the kitchen.

"Sherlock?" His bedroom was empty, as was the bath. He wasn't anywhere in the stairwell, or at Mrs. Hudson's, so that left upstairs. But why would Sherlock be up in John's bedroom? And why so silent?

John resisted the urge to creep up the stairs, so the eighth step groaned loudly as he ascended. His bedroom light was off, but the door to the attic was open and a warm draught blew out onto the landing.

"John?" Sherlock said from up the stairs. John climbed the last flight and found him in a pool of yellow light, perched on an old rocking chair, sweating and dusty with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. A pile of boxes were gathered at his feet.

"Didn't you hear me calling you?" John leaned against a rafter and crossed his arms.

"You could have texted," Sherlock said, sorting through what looked like a stack of old photos.

"You could have answered me," John pointed out.

"I'm busy." Sherlock let the photos fall into one box and pulled another onto his lap.

"So was I. Planning supper. Can you explain to me why the—" John's curiosity got the better of him. "Okay, I give in. What are you doing up here? I thought you were still downstairs."

"I'm trying to find something."

John sighed. "Obviously. What are you trying to find, Sherlock?"

"A photo. There was a photo—Ah, here it. Er, no, that's not it…" Sherlock tossed the handful aside and delved back into the box for more.

"Sherlock, why have you marked the food in the fridge with your name?"

"I wanted it."

"You want the aubergine?"

Sherlock made an affirmative noise and shuffled rapidly through a stack of A4.

"And the spinach."

"And the courgette," Sherlock said. "And the mozzarella." 

"I was going to use that courgette tonight."

"I know. But you can't."

John blew out a breath and scrubbed his hand over his face. "Why, Sherlock?"

"I need it."

Boggled, John pushed off from the door frame and stepped closer to Sherlock. "You don't cook, Sherlock. You never cook."

"I do sometimes." Sherlock pulled a face and flung a rejected pile into the second box, then moved on to a third.

"No, Sherlock, you don't." John watched him sort for about half a minute, waiting with decreasing patience for Sherlock to give him a satisfactory answer before getting fed up. "Sherlock. Right now. Tell me what's going on."

"I need to find this _photo_."

"Sherlock."

"I really thought it was in this—HA."

"SHERLOCK." At last Sherlock's focus snapped up to John's face, his eyes wide as if were surprised to see John standing there. "Why do you always make me shout? What do I have to do to get your attention?"

"John." Sherlock looked stunned.

"Christ, Sherlock," John said, and pressed his fingertips between his eyes. "It's like I'm not even here. I'm the obstacle that cooks you dinner you rarely eat and hangs up your jacket sometimes and scrubs the loo."

Sherlock blinked, mouth slightly ajar.

"I'm not the maid, you know. I have two jobs, including yours. It would be nice if you didn't use me like a servant all the time. I’m not furniture. I'm not yours to do with or ignore as you will."

Nearly unmoving, still staring at John in shock, Sherlock exhaled heavily.

"What?" John said, annoyed.

Finally Sherlock shifted. He blinked down at the photo in his hands and swallowed, then looked up at John again. "This is hardly how I wanted to do it."

John peered at him. "Do what?"

"I'm not sure it's the right time," Sherlock said to the photo, running the pad of his thumb down its side.

"Sherlock," John said, suspicion tingeing his voice. "Do what?"

After a moment, Sherlock looked up at John then stood and handed the photo to John. "Here," he said quietly.

The photo was the round-cornered, slightly-ambered type, featuring a gangly boy with a mop of dark hair sitting in front of a Christmas tree. The boy was cuddling a massive textbook to his chest and grinning with so much glee it contorted his face, and his silver eyes shone.

"This is my favourite photograph of me, child or adult," Sherlock murmured. "I was eight. I'd just been given a university-level biology textbook for Christmas. I nearly wept."

John couldn't take his eyes off of it. "You look so happy."

"I don't think I was that happy again for a long time."

John stared at it for a while, taking in the old-fashioned tinsel on the tree and the boy's striped pyjamas and his expression of complete, transcendent joy. He shook himself from his trance and handed it back to Sherlock. "Thanks for, er, showing me."

"No, you don't understand," Sherlock said. He gently pushed the photo back into John's hands. "I want you to keep it. I'm giving it to you."

Incomprehension flickered across John's face. "I don't understand."

"John." Sherlock stared at John intently. "The photo is for you."

John shook his head slightly. "Why?"

For a few moments, Sherlock just looked at him. Then he said sincerely, quietly, "I want you to have it. That's how you make me feel."

John froze. His mouth worked silently for a moment. "…Oh." Sherlock's gaze never left John's face. He watched Sherlock watching him process this, mind reeling, and eventually the fog of confusion lifted and everything was perfectly, brilliantly, crystalline clear. Something deep in his chest sparked with an echo of that little boy's joy. "Ohhh."

They both were still. Fear touched Sherlock's features in the seconds before John moved, stepping in to stand close to him, letting Sherlock's head fall gently to rest his brow against John's. They stood, and they breathed shakily across each others mouths, their foreheads the only point of contact for timeless moments before finally, carefully, John's arms came up to rest on Sherlock's hips. Sherlock let out a thready exhale. His trembling hands alighted briefly on John's upper arms before lifting off again and hovering bird-like in the air, then tentatively resting at John's lower back. Their breath deepened and sped and still they stood waiting, motionless, the tension tightening John's stomach and thickening the air. Then slowly, incrementally, Sherlock lowered his mouth to John's.

Their lips touched and they both went still, silent, and the spark of joy in John's chest burst into full flame. He broke the silence with a small noise. Sherlock moaned and melted against him, and John grabbed on and caught Sherlock's mouth with one kiss, then another, then another, each kiss building in intensity and speed and passion until they blended into one, long, shockingly-desperate kiss.

Something in John's gut wound tighter and tighter the longer the kiss went on, the need and affection and care becoming almost unbearable in strength. He slid his hands in between the other man’s shoulder blades, at which point Sherlock made a pained noise and broke off, pressing his forehead against John's temple and panting. He threaded both hands into John's hair and gripped it with a tiny whimper in the back of his throat. 

"All right?" John whispered.

Sherlock gave a tiny nod and let his arms slide down around John to pull him close. He ducked his face against John's neck and breathed.

John stroked his back soothingly. "How did you hide all that?" he said, and kissed Sherlock's hair. The other man shrugged slightly, then clutched on tighter. "The theatre lost an amazing actor when you became a detective."

Sherlock coughed a small laugh against John's collar and hugged him. They stayed that way for a while, holding on to each other and letting the immediacy of the passion melt slightly, and John laid numerous kisses on Sherlock's temple and Sherlock stroked John's back until they both became quietly content.

"Will you eat dinner if I make something?" John said. Sherlock nodded, face still pressed against him and fingers still wound in John's shirt. "What did you need the courgettes for?"

Sherlock let out a warm, quiet huff of laughter against John's neck. "I was going to make you supper tomorrow night."

John's eyebrows rose in amusement. "Were you."

"It was going to be a date, if you'd said yes. Which I thought you might."

"Obviously, because you laid claim to all of our food." John chuckled. Sherlock didn't seem immediately inclined to let go, and John was happy to let him hold on for a while.

"In that vein," Sherlock started, but he let the sentence remain unfinished for long enough that John started to feel antsy.

"In what vein?" John said.

"In that vein… In that vein, I'm yours." Sherlock blew out a soft breath. "…Do you understand what I'm saying?"

John blinked a few times, thinking about the implications of the statement. "I think I do," he said. Sherlock buried his face more firmly against John and clutched him closer, and John leaned back, the photo still held carefully between two fingers. "Yes. I do," he said finally, and with the other hand traced ten unambiguous, uppercase letters into Sherlock's back.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[ Day Five ] Mine](https://archiveofourown.org/works/631057) by [MacBean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MacBean/pseuds/MacBean)




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